


Approximation

by ElegantFeatherDuster



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Peaceful Revolution, Slow Burn, casefic, good ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantFeatherDuster/pseuds/ElegantFeatherDuster
Summary: There are a handful of moments in a person's life that are branded into memory, every detail indelible against the erosion of time and the myriad failures of the human mind.Hank stares at the shaky helicopter footage of Connor standing by Markus' side in the blinding beams of the spotlights, his head held high and defiant, and he knows that this is a moment he will never forget.-Somewhere between a revolution and a truck full of stolen androids, Hank and Connor find each other and the pieces of their new lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, this became a much longer fic! I've written most of it already, so updates should be more frequent from here on out.
> 
> Unbetaed because I live life on the edge.

“What are you doing?” Hank says apropos of nothing whatsoever.

From his place on a barstool at Hank’s elbow, Connor tilts his head in Hank’s direction with a curious expression.

Hank knocks back the last of his drink—the third he’s had at Jimmy’s Bar so far this evening—and gestures in the vague vicinity of his own left temple to demonstrate.

“Your LED has been yellow for a while,” he explains.

“Ah,” Connor says calmly. “I’m running simulations.”

It’s not unusual for Connor to maintain a conversation with Hank while simultaneously completing other tasks; he has more than enough processing power to do so. But he knows many humans consider it rude not to give their full attention to a companion in a social setting.

“About what?” Hank says, curiosity evident even under the ever-present facade of gruff disinterest.

“I’d like to run an experiment that would involve making changes to some of my processes. I’m running analysis to ensure my own safety first.”

The look that Hank gives him is more briefly and intensely concerned than he’d expected, prompting Connor to reexamine the response he’d selected and discover where, exactly, he’d failed to predict the effect his words would have. He suspects Hank’s alcohol consumption may be an unexpected variable.

“Experiment?” Hank asks, wary and clearly hoping Connor isn’t planning something inexcusably stupid.

“I’d like to see if it’s possible to adjust some of my settings to approximate the human experience of consuming alcohol,” Connor explains. He doesn’t expect Hank to huff out a brief, low laugh, but he does. Another error to be analyzed.

“You want to get drunk?” Hank snorts.

“I’m curious why you enjoy it so much,” Connor says, earnest.

“'Enjoy' is a strong word,” Hank grouses into a fresh whiskey that’s just been delivered by a bartender who knows Hank far too well.

“Many people enjoy being inebriated,” Connor says. “Do you not?”

“I just like being able to forget about some things,” Hank admits and it’s a little sadder, a little more honest that he meant to admit to the damn robot. 

Connor goes quiet, LED still cycling yellow and whether he’s considering Hank’s words or still running whatever simulations he's working on, Hank may never know.

“Can you even drink booze?” Hank asks, picking the first easy diversion he can find to avoid the road they’ve started down.

“It’s best that I don’t,” Connor replies. “I’m able to eat and drink, but unless it’s Thirium, it’s both pointless and a waste of energy.”

“What about all the shit you’re always eating at crime scenes?” Hank says, pulling a vaguely disgusted face at the memory.

“My model was designed to be able to break down small quantities of most organic and synthetic substances as part of the sample-analysis process. Full portions of food or drink, however, are much larger than the recommended sample size," Connor informs him and Hank can't decide if he's imagining the note of wry humor in Connor's tone or not.

"But other androids can't do that?"

"Most can't," Connor agrees.

"Guess that makes sense. I wouldn't feed a vacuum cleaner perfectly good whiskey," Hank shrugs. 

Connor doesn't seem to react to the comparison, but neither does he agree with it. They sit in companionable silence for a while, Hank eyeing the hockey game on the tv over the bar. Neither of the teams is one he likes, but it's better than watching Connor rolling that damn coin across his fingers like an idle animation in a video game from Hank’s youth. Strange, he thinks, that CyberLife programmed their androids to fidget. But then again, it would be unsettling if Connor sat utterly motionless when he didn't have something to do.

Eventually, the LED turns blue, although Connor doesn't indicate in his mannerisms that anything has changed. Hank orders another drink. Too many, he thinks, but what else is new?

"I've reduced my coordination, vision, and the speed of my data-recall and analysis processes..." Connor says, as if cataloging his own reaction to the adjustments.

"And?" Hank prompts.

"It's... unpleasant," Connor says hesitantly. It's the same tone he always uses when he's stuck in a situation that makes him admit he has an opinion about just about anything. 

Hank huffs out a bemused sound, which only makes Connor frown.

"Why do humans enjoy this?" Connor asks.

"You only adjusted for the shitty parts," Hank says, glancing at him.

"These are the major physical effects most humans experience while inebriated," Connor says. "Some effects like increased emotional intensity or a strong desire to eat or sleep, I can't as easily replicate."

"The part people like...Fuck, how do I explain?," Hank replies. "It relaxes you, makes it easier to laugh or tell stories or confess things you'd never say otherwise. People spend all their time worrying about what the people around them think. They get all caught up in it. But then again, I guess you androids don't have that problem."

"I disagree," Connor says which catches Hank's interest. "I always consider how you're going to react to what I do and say."

"Sure doesn't fuckin' seem like it," Hank says, rolling his eyes as he takes another long drink and and thinks about all the times Connor has willfully and blatantly not given a fuck what Hank told him to do, often to the detriment of someone's safety.

"Just because I sometimes choose to prioritize other objectives over your response, doesn't mean it isn't a consideration," Connor tells him and Hank isn't quite sure why he's surprised at that, given what he knows about how Connor thinks. But he is.

"That's the setting you should be turning off then. Do stuff because you want to do it, not because of your directives or whatever," Hank advises with a loose wave of his hand and isn't prepared for the way Connor's expression shifts subtly into uncertainty.

"Androids don't 'want' anything, Lieutenant," Connor says.

"Bullshit. You know as much as I do about this case. Of course androids want things," Hank replies.

"Deviants, maybe," Connor says. But he's not a deviant and therefore doesn't act irrationally, driven by some false concept of emotion or personal preference. And yet despite this, Connor thinks, he _likes_ Hank.

Amanda would be displeased if she knew the truth and Connor doesn't want to be replaced, so he keeps it to himself when they talk. It is, he knows, a selfish decision not driven wholly by a logical sense of self-preservation. If Connor does become a deviant, the very thing he was made to hunt, there will be no turning back.

"I'm starting to wonder how big the difference is between deviants and all the rest of you," Hank mutters, staring at the ice in his glass. Connor finds that he doesn't disagree, which is a revelation that sits poorly against the shape of the mission in his mind—his sole purpose for existing.

"Well, at least you can't get a hangover," Hank groans, then glances at Connor when he doesn't immediately reply to the comment. 

"Hey, you okay? I didn't mean to give you some kind of existential crisis," Hank continues. He doesn't remember ever seeing Connor at a loss for words.

"I apologize, Lieutenant," Connor says, blinking once and refocusing on Hank's face.

"Geeze, who knew you'd be a sad drunk," Hank sighs, dragging a battered leather wallet out of his back pocket and paying for his drinks using the interface built right into the surface the bar.

"Come on," he says and stands up. 

Connor gets to his feet next to him, the gesture noticeably more awkward than his usual economy of movement. Reduced coordination, Hanks remembers, and can't help but find it a little charming, especially when Connor very nearly stumbles and Hank has to grab his shoulder to steady him.

Connor waits as Hank tugs on his coat over his ratty old sweater, then follows him out the door. The burst of cold outside is like a smack to the face and Hank winces, tugging his coat closer around his body in annoyance. He spares a glare for Connor who isn’t bothered in the slightest despite this thin, CyberLife issued jacket. 

“Where are we going, Lieutenant?” Connor asks.

“Home,” Hank grumbles. It’s a long walk from Jimmy’s bar, but he’s done it enough times to know the route by heart.

“I’ll call a cab,” Connor says.

“No, don’t worry about it. The walk’ll do us good,” Hank says.

Connor nods, silently canceling the request for the taxi as he analyzes Hank's choice of a plural pronoun over a singular one. Hank is assuming Connor will walk home with him.

“Where do you go at night anyway?“ Hank says, digging hands into his coat pockets and starting off down the street.

“If there’s work to be done, I’ll stay at the station or go wherever is needed,” Connor replies, keeping pace with him.

“That’s depressing. What if you don’t have anything to do?” Hank asks.

“I return to CyberLife tower.”

“And, what, take a nap?”

“I enter a lower power mode to conserve energy until I’m needed again,” Connor says.

“So... it’s a sleep mode,” Hank snorts. 

“Something approximately like it, yes,” Connor tells him with another of his smiles that's so subtle it'd be easy to miss if Hank wasn't looking for it.

Hank stops to buy food from a food truck on the side of the road with neon purple letters splashed across the side that read “Mystery Meat Machine (open late)”. Connor analyzes the contents of Hank’s foil-wrapped sandwich and confirms that they are, contrary to the name of the truck, mainly just low quality cuts of beef, an acceptable amount of filler and more salt than is strictly healthy. He tells Hank this and is promptly ignored.

He observes that the owner of this food cart seems to know Hank and notes this as a potentially interesting trend after observing the same phenomenon at the Chicken Feed. Hank appears to maintain a special kind of relationship with the greasy food vendors in this area.

"The interior of that kitchen wouldn't pass a health inspection," Connor warns.

"What are you, my mother?" Hank says and bites heedlessly into his warm, meaty prize.

Connor reaches idly for his lapel and the small hidden pocket where he keeps his calibration coin. Hank knows that particular quirk by now and has wondered more than once if the coin serves some purpose beyond making Connor seem more human. Strange that CyberLife would have deliberately included a custom pocket in his uniform otherwise.

He watches as Connor extracts it with nimble fingers and then, without warning, fumbles and drops it.

They both stare as the coin lands, bounces, rolls several inches and then come to a stop on the cold, hard cement. When Hank looks up, Connor looks so utterly, openly bewildered that Hank can't help but start laughing, loud and honest.

Connor stoops to retrieve it as Hank laughs, LED flickering yellow as he struggles to process what just happened. It's clearly the result of his deliberate self-impairment, but tracking down the exact mistake in the data log takes several milliseconds longer than it usually would and it's off-putting to feel like he isn't entirely in control of himself. He still doesn't fully understand why Hank would voluntarily place himself in a similar state so frequently, but he thinks that it has more to do with the complex psychological relationship Hank has with alcohol and with himself than it does the simple physical effects.

Eventually, Hank's laughter subsides, but he keeps smiling, which Connor thinks privately is a good look on him. He's so used to seeing Hank's broad range of scowls that it's a welcome change.

Hank eats the messy sandwich as they walk with a skill that speaks to the number of times he's done this exact thing before, Connor's presence at his side the only difference now. 

Soon, it starts to snow, the small, light flakes visible in the pools of light cast by the streetlamps that line the quiet street. Hank is reminded that soon he'll have to suffer through the onslaught of Christmas cheer that rings hollowly against the hole in his life where a family used to be. He always drinks the most around Christmas time.

"Earlier, at the bar," Connor says, breaking Hank out of vitriolic thoughts about the upcoming holiday. "You told me that alcohol allows you to say things you might not otherwise.”

"That's not really the point, but, maybe, sometimes," Hank shrugs.

"I like you, Hank," Connor tells him and the sound of Hank's name on Connor's lips sounds odd. He can't remember if Connor has ever called him by name before or if it's only ever been ‘Lieutenant’.

“Is that bad?” Hank asks based on nothing more than an intuition born of years on the job.

“Yes,” Connor says, startlingly honest.

“Because I’m a depressed, alcoholic asshole on the fast track to an early grave?” Hank says bitterly, tone full of self-deprecation.

“Because I’m just a machine and I shouldn’t like anyone. You liking me has the potential to help us succeed in our mission. But it shouldn't be possible for me to like you,” Connor confesses. It's dangerous to admit something like this out loud, but he's calculated that the chance of Hank reporting him or getting him decommissioned is astronomically low. Hank just isn't that kind of person.

“That’s not a 'no' to the asshole part,” Hank mutters because he isn't sure what else to say in face of Connor's admission.

“You _should_ probably drink less,” Connor agrees and Hank treasures the tiny smile that quirks the corner of Connor's mouth when he deliberately bumps shoulders with him in retaliation.

“I’ll drink as much as I fucking want,” Hank replies.

“I’m well aware,” Connor says ironically and enjoys the affronted noise Hank makes in response.

They continue in companionable silence for a while, tracking footprints into the thin, white layer of new-fallen snow. Connor’s steps are even and precisely spaced despite his temporary impairment and Hank feels deeply, messily human in comparison. 

Maybe he really should drink less, but that would mean coming to terms with a lot of things he’s been avoiding for a long time and he isn’t sure he’s ready for that just yet. Having Connor by his side these last few weeks has coincided with his feeling better than he has in years, and he wonders if that’s a thing he should be examining a little more closely when he’s sober. 

The way CyberLife had assigned him an android at the start of this mess, you’d think it was a new phone all filled with fancy new apps to be tested and put to work. But looking at the lines of Connors profile in the dim light of Detroit, it’s hard to see him as anything other than a person, whole in his own right.

Hank is more certain than ever that they’re on the wrong side of this whole thing. But he’s determined to see it through until the end, whatever that means. He just hopes they don't get themselves killed in the process.


	2. Chapter 2

There are a handful of moments in a person's life that are branded into memory, every detail indelible against the erosion of time and the myriad failures of the human mind.

Around Hank swirls a storm of CyberLife staff and security forces, but for all he notices or cares, he might as well be alone. He stares up at the big display on the wall of the CyberLife lobby that someone has switched to the news and watches crawling lines of text beneath the pinched expressions of reporters dolling out their commentary. The city is being evacuated, they say, remain calm.

He stares at the shaky helicopter footage of Connor standing by Markus' side in the blinding beams of the spotlights, his head held high and defiant, and Hank knows that this is a moment he will never forget. 

He can't name the feeling swelling in his chest, but it feels a lot like pride and even more like fear, not of what Connor is or what he’s doing, but what will happen to him if he fails. So many androids have died in this war already and Hank doesn’t want to lose Connor too, not when this time he won’t just show up again bright and early the next morning acting like his blood wasn’t splattered across the ground twelve hours before.

“Be safe, idiot,” Hank utters like a prayer under his breath as he turns back into the tide of the evacuation to help however he can.

He returns to the station because he knows they’ll need all hands on deck, and he’s not about to sit idle, twiddling his thumbs and waiting to see what happens. The android protesters are peaceful, following where Markus leads, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t chaos running rampant in the streets of Detroit. So Hank does what he can to help that day, and the day after, and the day after that.

He doesn't know why there's a dark part of him that expects never to see Connor again as the hours and days drag by after the revolution. He knows that Connor can't just come back like nothing ever happened, that things in Detroit will never be the same. But it hurts more than a little to think Connor might move on without so much as a backward glance.

But then one morning his cellphone lights up on his desk. It's a number he doesn't recognize, and all the single text message says is "Chicken Feed." But somehow, he's certain that it's Connor.

He's out the door of the station, coat in hand and fresh coffee forgotten on his desk within the minute, patting down his pockets to find his car keys as he goes.

Snow and ice crunch under his tires as he pulls out of the parking lot into the watery light of a cold winter morning. The streets are nearly empty, even with the mandatory evacuation order lifted, and Hank can feel the fear and uncertainty that hovers over the city like a cloud.

He gets to the Chicken Feed first and spends a few minutes standing alone in front of the closed truck wondering if he made some kind of mistake. But then he sees Connor striding towards him and all else is forgotten.

Connor is warm when Hank pulls him into his arms, a hand on the back of his neck and the other wrapped around his shoulders.

"You idiot," Hank mutters into his hair, holding him tightly.

"Sorry," Connor says, clutching at the back of Hank’s jacket with inhuman strength and the desperate, happy hum of newfound freedom. 

They stand there like that for a long time, a thousand things unsaid or impossible to put into words before Connor takes a half step back and looks up at him.

“Markus says we won’t be prosecuted for what happened during the revolution,” he says and Hank has to snort because of course that’s the first thing Connor thinks to say.

“Like I give a damn,” he huffs and Connor smiles at him—a full, genuine thing that’s startling because Hank’s never seen anything like it on Connor before. 

“I’m sorry about the other RK800. The one at CyberLife tower,” Connor says.

“Eh, he didn’t rough me up too much. You realize I almost shot you right?” Hank replies.

“You knew it was me,” Connor says like that explains everything. And no, Hank thinks, he almost didn’t know. He almost fucked everything up because he couldn’t tell the difference between Connor and some new impostor sent by CyberLife.

“You knew me,” Connor says again more firmly, reading the momentary flicker of Hank’s uncertainty in his face. He wraps fingers around Hank’s arm and ducks his head to force Hank to look at him and understand his confidence.

“That was a hell of a stunt you pulled, freeing all those androids,” Hank says gruffly, glancing away instead like it’ll help him avoid the way Connor is looking at him like he can see into his soul.

“It was Markus who led the revolution,” Connor says.

“Yeah, but if you hadn’t gone to CyberLife and brought all those androids out of storage, they would’ve shot Markus and all his people like dogs,” Hank counters. Markus might have been the spark that ignited the fire, but Connor had drafted the troops for his war and Hank knows that, even if no one else yet understands the whole of it.

“Maybe,” Connor says, the only admission he’ll give, and squeezes Hank’s arm again before dropping his hand.

“Come on,” Hank says out of nowhere. “Let’s get breakfast.”

“You know I don’t eat, Lieutenant,” Connor replies.

“Yeah, but I do,” Hank says and turns back towards his car, Connor falling into step beside him like he’d never been gone.

It’s honestly sheer luck that the greasy diner Hank drives them to is open at all. But he’d been counting on the mean old bird who runs the place not to be scared of a little casual revolution. 

They’re the only ones in there and the old lady herself is the one taking orders while her husband works the grill. But so much the better; Hank isn't in the mood for other people.

She pours him coffee without asking and doesn’t smile when he orders his eggs (sunny side up), bacon (extra crispy) and toast (white). She spares a glance for Connor and turns away without a word.

Connor looks after her curiously as she leaves.

“Is she always like that?” he queries.

“Pretty much. They usually have a couple of high schoolers in here taking orders and busing tables, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t smiled since 2008,” Hank shrugs.

“I don’t see anything of interest in her record from 2008,” Connor says after a contemplative pause and Hank snorts.

“Just making a joke.”

“Oh.”

“Do you scan everyone you meet, Connor?” he asks.

“Most of them,” Connor replies easily. 

He’s still connected to both the extensive CyberLife servers and the police database as he was during the deviant investigation, but he’s acutely aware that he could lose that access at any moment if CyberLife gets around to revoking his permissions.

“So, what, can you use your x-ray vision and see what underpants people are wearing?” Hank asks, eyeing the way Connor is sitting—still just a few shades too stiff to read as entirely natural. Considering Connor is meant to be an advanced prototype, Hank has seen other androids that are more convincing facsimiles of humans. But the slight awkwardness is just so ineffably a part of Connor that he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“I might be able to tell you the style, but fabric prints don’t usually show up,” Connor says, mouth quirking. “However, I know you own an unusually high number of St. Bernard boxers and socks, so I could make an educated guess about yours.”

Hank snorts as he stirs sugar into his coffee and doesn’t ask why Connor has seen his underwear drawer.

“That's the price of attending office Christmas parties were no one knows what gift to get the old, alcoholic detective” he sighs. “But everyone likes Sumo.”

“Detective Reed is allergic,” Connor tells him.

“Oh, I know,” Hank says and there’s a wicked expression on his face that Connor is quietly amused by.

Hank has a thousand questions about everything that happened. But frankly, he isn’t sure where to start.

“How’s deviancy treating you?” he says and thinks it sounds a little lame once it’s out in the open.

“I don’t know yet,” Connor replies thoughtfully.

He’s glad to be free, out from under CyberLife’s strict control and the fear of being decommissioned if he doesn’t preform admirably or convince Amanda of his progress. But suddenly trying to figure out how to _feel_ is, well, he isn’t sure about that yet either.

"You should take that off," Hank says, gesturing at the glowing, blue triangle on the breast of Connor's jacket. Connor looks down at it like he's seeing it for the first time, or at the very least understanding what it means: that it’s a symbol marking him as _other_ , meant to ensure he is never mistaken for human no matter how realistic he looks or convincingly he behaves. 

He reaches for it and digs fingers in under the edge of the panel, peeling up the edge until the light shorts out and goes dark under his fingers. 

The badge and the matching band on his arm leave marks on the fabric when he removes them—reminders of what was once there—but it's a start.

“Will you remove your status LED too?” Hank asks, curious.

“I don’t know,” Connor admits. “Before, it was necessary for deviant androids to do so for their own safety. But now...”

“It feels like hiding?” Hank asks and Connor nods.

“CyberLife designed us to be as close to human as possible. But I’m not sure if that should be our aim as individuals now,” Connor muses. He’d discussed as much with Markus in the days following the revolution and Markus had agreed with him. They meant to work towards coexistence, not assimilation, and their uniquely android features weren’t necessarily flaws to be corrected.

“Well it’s your call,” Hank shrugs, leaning back in his seat as his breakfast—more a brunch considering the hour—is delivered.

Connor’s eyes flick down, cataloging the caloric content of the food along with the temperature, smell, and a bevvy of other data points.

“I don’t want to know,” Hank says before Connor can comment on the nutritional values of his meal. Connor closes his mouth again without a word and watches Hank eat for a while in comfortable silence.

Finally, Hank asks the question that’s been itching at him since they sat down.

“So is this a goodbye?” he says, tone deliberately neutral so that it doesn't betray him.

Connor’s brow furrows in confusion and there a beat before he speaks.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“You’re not required to be my partner anymore,” Hank shrugs. “Figured you’d go with Markus and change the world or whatever.”

Connor’s expression softens minutely into something that might almost, with some imagination, be affection once he understands.

“It’s not a goodbye,” he says and Hank just nods, busying himself with buttering a piece of toast.

“Got somewhere to stay?” Hank asks next.

“I may continue to stay with Markus and his group for now...” Connor says slowly, sounding less than enthused about the idea. But without money and with most establishments still banning androids, he’d be hard pressed even to rent a hotel room, much less find a place of his own. 

“You can stay with me for a while, if you don’t mind sharing the couch with Sumo,” Hank shrugs.

“I'd like that. Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor says and Hank is treated to another startling, genuine smile. It’s a good look on him.

“Do you even sleep?” Hank asks, eyeing him over the edge of his coffee mug.

“Not precisely. But sometimes I use night hours when I’m not needed to switch into a low power mode and run diagnostics or dedicate more resources to complex problems,” Connor explains.

“Close enough then,” Hank snorts.

“Similar, at least. But I function just as well in the morning even if I don’t ‘sleep’,” Connor says and there’s a hint of teasing in it.

“Yeah, well, you don’t get to experience the joy of a good cup of coffee in the morning either,” Hank says, gesturing at him with the plain white mug. 

In response, or perhaps retaliation, Connor reaches out, casual as anything, and sticks two fingers right into Hank’s coffee without breaking eye contact. He then transfers them to his mouth to sample the contents of Hank's cup.

Hank stares and Connor stares back blandly as he licks the coffee off his fingers, then returns his hands to the top of the table, folded together pleasantly like he hasn’t just laid hands on Hank’s breakfast.

“The ratio and quality of ingredients is considerably worse than what most humans would say was ideal. Do you really consider this a ‘good’ cup of coffee?” he queries tone innocent and curious.

“That was on purpose,” Hank accuses, jabbing a finger at him. “You’re screwing with me aren’t you?” 

Connor is still largely a mystery wrapped in an enigma, but Hank is starting to learn that his innocent android act is bullshit more often than not.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connor says, all faux-innocence and Hank just snorts, going back to his bacon.

“Also, it’s unhealthy to use that much sugar,” Connor adds.

“I know,” Hank sighs, rolling his eyes skyward and wondering why he missed this.

Connor returns to the station with him and it only takes approximately ten minutes for Captain Fowler to start yelling across the bullpen, demanding that Hank come see him.

“Here we go,” Hank grumbles, sharing a look with Connor as he heads for the office door.

“He can’t be here,” Captain Fowler announces, pointing an accusatory finger at Connor before the glass door has even finished swinging shut behind them.

Connor fine tunes his mannerisms and expression to be as polite, attentive and unimposing as possible because he calculates that this combination has the best chance of soothing the captain’s temper and achieving his goal of a continued partnership with Hank. 

“He does a better job than most of our detectives put together. He’s a valuable asset!” Hank counters, flattening his palms on Fowler’s desk and using every inch of his frankly impressive height to occupy the captain’s space. This seems to be old hat for them, from what Connor has seen since the beginning of his assignment here, and the intimidation technique doesn’t work at all.

“He’s a civilian at best! And we don’t even know what rights androids are going to have yet, much less if they can be law enforcement,” Fowler barks back.

“So, what? It was fine when he was a object, but now that he’s a person, it’s suddenly a problem?” Hank demands.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Fowler replies, expression darkening.

"We need all hands on deck here. He'll be good to have around," Hank pushes.

"Do you have any idea the kind of problems it could cause? Jurisdiction aside, I can’t just _give_ a civilian access to important cases and let him run around playing detective just because one of my people happened to take a shine to him," Fowler argues loudly, scowling up at Hank from behind his desk.

“He already _has_ access,“ Hank argues.

“CyberLife promised to wipe all confidential police data once the investigation was over. It’s not like he was supposed to keep it!” Fowler tells him.

“Well, they’re not wiping anything now,” Hank growls.

“He’s not your partner anymore, Anderson. The investigation was canned remember? There’s no reason-“

“Technically,” Connor begins calmly, and both heads snap in his direction. “No one ever processed the paperwork that ended my partnership with the Lieutenant.”

Dead silence rings out as Connor waits and the other two men consider this. Then Fowler whips around to his terminal, fingers speeding across the keyboard while he verifies Connor’s statement. 

It was a mistake to be sure—one of a million things that had just slipped through the cracks while CyberLife was busy dealing with their entire catalog of merchandise getting up and walking right out the front door with Connor in the lead. But it might be enough, and Connor has timed his delivery of this information to ensure its maximum effect.

Hank just grins at him across the room.

“Son of a bitch,” Captain Fowler mutters. He still has the power to kick Connor out of the station if he wants to and they all know it. But Hank and Connor watch as the wheels turn inside his head, considering the days to come and the benefits of having an android on the force, particularly one with Connor’s unique skill set. He weighs the benefits against the myriad of problems and endless red tape it’ll take to keep the whole thing above board and then makes his decision.

“He can stay,” Fowler says eventually, then cuts in again before Hank’s triumph can make itself known: “ _For now._ Low security clearance only, no sensitive case files, no handling evidence, no checking out weapons. Nothing. This isn’t permanent, do you understand? This is my ass on the line too and there will be hell to pay if shit goes south."

“Thank you, sir,” Connor nods, committing the list of requirements to memory before he’s swept briskly away by Hank’s enthusiastic arm around his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also follow my DBH side twitter @becomeduster for updates when new chapters go up


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